When the lady at the American Airlines desk announces they’re almost ready to start boarding, I reach into my pocket, checking for the pills. I’m tempted to take one of them, but I hold out. I’m a badass wilderness woman, I remind myself, and as such, I don’t need to take a pill to get on a plane.
As it turns out, I can handle flying, especially when I’m super interested in a book. The flight is completely uneventful, and I make it a good ways through the story by the time we land in Bozeman. As we pull into the gate, I turn and peek down the aisle to see Becka sitting near the back of the plane. Lucky us. We got seats on opposite ends this time. When she looks up, I give her a cheesy smile and a wave. She stares right through me, standing to stretch instead. Looks like we’re off to another great start.
After getting checked in to our hotel, I immediately head to the indoor pool for a swim. It’s surprisingly chilly in the big room, and as I’m about to jump in, I spot a fancy hot tub in the corner, which looks a little more appealing. Mom always talks about building a back deck and putting in a hot tub with her big casino winnings, but I’m not holding my breath. Any time she does win a decent amount, she usually loses it all in the slot machines.
I’m enjoying the warm water and minding my own business when an old man with a wispy comb-over steps in and settles in on the opposite side of the hot tub.
“How are you, young lady?” he asks with a yellowed smile.
“Fine, thanks.”
After a few exchanged pleasantries, I’m starting to feel pretty awkward with just the two of us sitting here, so I climb back out and return to The Maze Runner, which I’ve brought along with me. It doesn’t take long to get back into the book and forget about the only other person in this big room.
“Why are you reading that?” I jump at the sound of Becka’s voice but blame it mostly on the story since the Grievers are attacking.
“Because I want to.”
Tossing a towel into the chair beside me, she makes a grunting noise as she takes a seat. I try to keep reading, but it’s hard to focus with Becka sitting beside me now. “Have you read it?” I ask in an attempt at civility.
“Yeah, in, like, the sixth grade.”
“Oh, it was in the teen section at the library.”
She gives me a look that I interpret to mean: You’re such an idiot.
We sit in silence for a while, me trying to read and her scrolling through her phone, but after a while, Becka peels off her T-shirt, revealing a red tankini beneath. She heads toward the pool, dives in, and starts swimming laps, because that’s what athletes do, obviously. At least I’m able to continue with my book in peace now.
When I come to a good stopping point, I decide I might as well hop in the pool, too. That’s what I came down here for, after all. Becka stands in the shallow end, facing away from me as she squeezes water out of her hair. An idea comes, and I stealthily move toward her, pausing when I get to the pool’s edge. Bending my knees, I push off from the ledge and do the biggest cannonball I can manage without getting a running start. Water goes everywhere and washes over Becka’s head in a giant whoosh.
“What are you doing?” she screeches, whirling around to face me. We’re only a couple feet apart, so I back up a few steps. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the old man in the hot tub watching us with interest now.
“Just wanted to cool off,” I say. “Sorry, guess I didn’t notice you standing so close.”
She squints her eyes at me and then shakes her head. “Real mature, K. J. Act your age, why don’t you?”
“How about you lighten up a little?” I raise a brow for emphasis. “Or is that too much to ask?”
I smirk and swim away before she has a chance to respond.
CHAPTER 12BECKA
NOW THIS IS THE KIND OF TRIP I CAN APPRECIATE. After a nice hike up to the summit of Mount Washburn and then back down again, we reach a place called Artist Point, getting an up close and personal view of the so-called Grand Canyon of Yellowstone. I much prefer this Grand Canyon over the other one. First of all, we’re not nearly as high up. Second, and best of all, I don’t have to go down into it on a mule.
The whooshing river at the canyon’s base, along with conversations of dozens of visitors, make it a little difficult to hear our guide, Johan. I take a few steps closer, not just because I want to hear his every word, but also because I could stare at him all day long. In fact, I’ve been ogling those perfect calves of his for nearly the entire hike today.
And hallelujah, we get to spend two more glorious days with him.
“Excuse me, Miss,” Johan says in his sexy Swedish accent. I follow his gaze, which stops at K. J. She’s standing near the lookout rail, clutching a rock in one hand like she’s about to throw it over the edge. “Please don’t do that.”
She turns and gives a sheepish shrug. “Oh, sorry.”
I shake my head, annoyance seeping into my very core. She’s so embarrassing.
Johan clears his throat and continues. “So after the caldera eruption some six hundred
